Monthly Archives: December 2012

Walking my greyhounds the other day, I stumbled into one of those sublime moments that you file away and retrieve for personal merriment, or whenever someone starts up about how cute, smart or clever their pet might be.

It’s damp, chilly and nearing twilight on a late winter afternoon as we round a corner near the middle of our route near the high school, and Chatterbox pulls up and assumes the dump position just off the sidewalk.

I reach into my pocket for a plastic bag, as I’m usually quite fastidious about picking up after my own dogs in public. But not this time.

Didn’t see it before, but Chatterbox had squatted over a lost glove lying palm-side up in the grass and left her deposit directly on center. Could not have sculpted a more elegant tower myself with can of chocolate whipped topping. Held like a trophy. Wide base uniformly tapering to a twist at the top.

It was a work of art. Call it greyhound graffiti. A turd in the hand. Bansky outside the bag.

I left it for the world to see. Came back the next day with my camera, but it had rained and the tower had turned to oatmeal.

Didn’t scoop that time either. Hey, someone might still be looking for their glove!

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Ruby and Judy sat facing each other at a table for four in the Oxnard Tavern, draining Coronas and talking smack.

“So, you’re really gonna hang it up and get married?” Ruby teased. “Sweetie, I’m surprised at you. What are you gonna do for sex?”

“Jeez, girl, I’ll have a husband,” Judy answered. “Won’t have to go looking for it any more. It’ll always be there. Whenever I want it.”

“Yeah, ‘IT’ will be there for you. And that’s what you’ll think of ‘IT’ before for too long. Same man. Same stuff. Bet you’re howlin’ like a dog within a month!”

The old juke box in the corner played a 45 record of Hank Williams’ “Your Cheatin’ Heart” as the two women continued.

“Hey, I love Quinn,” Judy said. “He’s tall, dark and handsome. Makes lots of money. Hasn’t been married before, so there’s no exes or step kids to worry about.”

“I know all that,” Ruby replied. “He’s a fine hunk of man, and you’re lucky to have him. But what about our oath when we turned 21. Neither of us was gonna settle down till we had our fill of men, or turned 30, and that meant sampling the whole menu before declaring a favorite. We promised we’d both go through the whole alphabet of men before we picked one.”

“I know we promised,” Judy said. “And I’m right at the edge of my alphabet. Quinn was my Q, and I only have an X left.”

“Ah-huh, and what are you gonna do after you’re married and Mr. X comes around?” Ruby chided. “Just say, ‘No thanks, I’m married?’ ”

“Well, yes, I guess that’s about the size of it,” Judy said. “The whole alphabet thing was fun while it lasted. But honest to god, how many X-men do you even meet in your life, let alone couple up with. And we’re both gonna be 30 before you know it. We’re runnin’ out of time.

“How you doin’ on your list anyway,” Judy asked. “Had an X yet”

“No,” Ruby said. “I haven’t had a Q or a U, either. And Keith Urban hasn’t answered any of my texts. Could I borrow your Q stick sometime before the wedding?”

“It’s all pretty silly,” Judy replied. “Let’s forget it, and we can both just focus on Mr. Right instead of Mr. X.”

“Maybe so,” Ruby said, as the handsome new bartender approached their table, picking up empty glasses and taking orders.”

“Two more for you ladies?”

“Yes, definitely,” Ruby said, “and two shots of Cuervo, too!”

The bartender returned with their drinks, then stepped outside for a quick cigarette.

“Did ya get a good look at that guy. Nice face, and cute butt, too. And did ya see his name tag?” Ruby asked. “Xavier!”

“I did notice that,” Judy said, throwing back her shot. “Join me for a Camel?”

“One hump or two?” Ruby chirped

“Let’s make that his call,” Judy said.

(Note: This was written as a Writers Kickstart prompt, 500 words or less, on the topics Two Camels and a 45, plus Walk Me to the Edge of the Alphabet.)

My wife has been a co-conspirator in these crimes. Or least an enabler as the supplier of cute but easily ripped squeaker toys for doggy enjoyment. The latest victim, a stuffed squirrel, had a hole in it within minutes of introduction. By the next day, it looked like road kill in the snow under a Greyhound bus.

I’ve lost count of the desqueaked and shredded bodies I’ve disposed of. Squirrels, cats, possums, monkeys, snakes, sheep. We make Sid from Toy Story look like a choir boy. I’m reminded of the last scene in Toy Story, when Woody gets the Christmas Day report from Sarge in the flower pot: “It’s a puppy!” Previously thought the puppy merely represented another possible alienation of affection. I now realize the potential killer seen in Woody’s eyes.

Chatterbox, our 10-year-old greyhound, occasionally amuses herself with stuffed toys, too, but age has taught her that the squeaky things can’t run and are no real threat. She simply grows bored once the carcass is desqueaked and prefers chasing the live animals that venture into our yard. Trouble is, word’s out in the critter block watch network to steer clear of our backyard where the assassins roam. The dogs can go from zero to full speed in three strides, and they can get anywhere in the yard within four seconds. Squirrels once delighted in instigating a chase before leaping to apparent safety atop the fence while scurrying to freedom. That lasted until one of them was ripped from the top of the fence and chewed from the middle like a hairy sausage link.

I have two sacks of desqueaked dog toys in various states of mutilation from BB and previous serial toy killers that we’ve fed. The plan is to one day launder and repair them with new squeakers sewn inside, but the Frankenstein procedure has yet to happen. Rather, we continue to play Nero, offering up fresh innocents and enjoying the spectacle like mob Romans.

BB is currently working on a canvas-skin frog. Haven’t heard a squeak out of it for more than an hour. Must be nap time. Or send in the litter bearers!

“Alright, people, let’s get started. You all know why we’re here,” the Chief stated. “We’ve been selling Princess phones for 35 years, and now the big boys want to discontinue production.

“So before we pull the plug, I want to ask each one of you for salvage ideas: Who’ll save the Princess?”

“Carlson, your thoughts!”

“Only one, Chief! How ‘bout we make a new base, shaped like shoe, and add a toe to the handset, so when the two are joined the toe sticks out like a misfit shoe, and everyone gets a big kick out of it, thinking Cinderella?”

“Too corny, Carlson, but nice try,” the Chief said.

“Hoglund! What’s your idea?”

“Clear plastic, Chief, so that all internal components are visible to the consumer. Sort of a glass slipper takeoff on Carlson’s idea! With even greater appeal to mechanical nerds! And women do like shoes!”

“I like the mechanical angle, Hoglund. But Jesus, everyone, enough with the Cinderella crap!

“Who’s next? Schwartzmiller?”

“Jewels, Sir. Precious stones imbedded in both the base and handset. We might not sell as many phones, but if we charge enough and target the elitist crowd, we could still make a bundle!”

“Not bad, Schwartzmiller. I like where that line of thinking is headed. But I don’t think it’s wise to price anyone out.

“Peterson, you’re a woman. What would the ladies want in a new Princess phone?”

“It vacuums, cooks and scrubs toilets!” Peterson quipped. “Just kidding, Sir, but grab yourself and consider what I think is a bold new concept.

“The Princess is already small, streamline and marketed for bedroom use. Let’s put all our cards on the table and make the entire handset a massager/vibrator as well as a phone. In fact, scrap the ringer feature altogether and add a vibration adjuster for appropriate stimulation. And maybe,” she added with a raised eyebrow and knowing smile, “rethink the shape of the whole phone, making it longer and thicker.”

Nine seconds of deafening silence followed Peterson’s delivery before the Chief, sitting slack-jawed and owl-eyed, cleared his throat, blinked four times and said, “Jesus, Peterson, a fucking vibrator? My wife would never go for that. And I don’t think Carlson, Hoglund or Schwartzmiller’s wives would either. Would they?”

“Excuse me, Sir,” said Mr. Wu, the last of the seated executives waiting to be heard. “I think we might want to look at the new cordless technology and messaging feature we’re hearing about. And a smaller, hinged product along the lines of the communicator device on Star Trek. Maybe even think about some kind of viewing screen down the road for message reading and photo imaging or conferencing potential.”